


The Proper Care and Maintenance of Genuine Leather Boots

by Louffox



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Boot Worship, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dom/sub Undertones, Leather Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: Oscar Wilde shouldn't go on missions and adventure in the dangerous new world when dressed only in his peacock suits. Zolf takes it upon himself to help him get some decent armor. Helping an ally find some suitable armor could hardly lead to regret, right?
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 13
Kudos: 91





	The Proper Care and Maintenance of Genuine Leather Boots

**Author's Note:**

> This took me an eternity to write and I've no idea why. I've spent a very unnecessary amount of time learning about boots, and I've written this almost entirely on a phone, and I don't ever get my work beta'd, so please excuse any errors. I did have fun with this though. In the righteous way of our great leader Ben, I will die on this (points at Zolf and Wilde smooching) hill.

This one goes out to egg nog and amaretto, my first pair of steel toe timberlands, and all those who fuel my massive fucking spite fire.

“Right, you ready to- oh. I guess not,” Zolf said, not even bothering to finish his sentence.

Wilde held up his arms, one brow lifting slightly. “I am ready.”

Zolf shook his head. “No you're not. We’re not going to a gala, we’re going to the forest.”

“Ye-es?”

“So- god's wounds, you're being obstinate today- you need to be dressed for the forest.”

Wilde looked down at his ensemble, and removed his jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Better?”

Zolf made an impatient noise. Idiot meritocratic politician. He’d agreed to take him into the field and work with him out of sheer impatience with the lack of progress, knowing that debating over who was going with who and where was just going to be an eon of hmm’ing and ha’ing, so he’d told them to dump some water on his face in the morning and tell him where he was going. Now he was starting to realize maybe that had been a mistake. The pastels of Wilde’s clothes seemed to mock him.

“Have you got much coin on you?”

“Of course. Why?”

Zolf slung his glave over his back, resigning himself to the hateful task ahead. Give him a swim in a sewer, or a battlefield of blood and effluent, or a stakeout, or a siege, a storm, a siren. Not this. Anything but this.

“We’re going shopping.”

-… .- … - .- .-. -.. -… .- .-. -..

Getting Wilde in armor was exactly as nightmareish as Zolf had expected. Wilde was drawn to anything shiny, the more useless gems, filigree, leaf and embroidery, the more he wanted it. Zolf had to physically drag him away from a silver breastplate painted with green vines and cherry blossoms (“That’s a temple of Hera artefact, useless, especially to someone who worships  _ nothing _ !”). He eventually let him try on some plate, just so he would understand how heavy it was, and only then did Wilde conceed to letting him drag him to a shop with a more utilitarian selection.

It took an  _ eternity _ . Wilde wanted to try absolutely everything on, and was continuously distracted by scarves and shoes and accessories. Every time Zolf turned his back to him, he was finding some hat or colorful gloves.

And then when he did finally decide on something, Zolf wanted to punch himself in the face. Okay, so it was armor. And it wasn’t  _ that _ decorative, at least not in any way that would interfere with functionality. It was hardy leather, worked well to be thick but flexible, made from lots of smaller sections of leather held together with rivets and good stitching. It was a warm brown, so that was better than all the purples and reds Wilde had been trying to choose.

It was also absolutely skin tight.

_ Only Wilde. Bloody fashion queen _ . Somehow, the handler had found something that was functional enough for Zolf to be unable to argue, as it did provide excellent protection and would be exceptional quality, but also had a certain… aesthetic. Zolf had thought that putting him in armor would help him be less ostentatious, pass under the radar as a common mercenary or soldier. But now… subtlety would be unlikely. Because though the leather clothes were functional… they were also absolutely  _ scintillating _ .

Wilde was hot.

The leather was tight to his legs, showing a lanky, lithe body that was tended to, despite being mostly an inner city desk worker. Wilde clearly took care of his physique, even if he wasn’t running on the ground like the mercenaries were. (Though Zolf was well aware that Wilde used the tools of seduction just like any other weapon, a memory that made his stomach twist and drop.) His body was taut, long where Zolf was broad, with a soft, elegant neck and lush hips. He had flesh on his bones, but in all the right places. Quite frankly, he looked borderline obscene with the warm brown leather flowing over his shoulders, somehow managing to outline his shoulders, delts, biceps, the lines of his back and spine. The curve at the small of his back was damn near begging for hands, worse even than his long ringlets of touch-me hair.

And then there were the boots.

Zolf rubbed both hands over his face. Gods above, those boots. They were… something.

When they left the shopping district (after Wilde had spent a merry hour haggling over prices- Zolf knew he had plenty of gold and could afford the steepest prices without concern, but apparently Wilde just enjoyed the bartering,) he felt somewhat confused and still displeased. He had achieved his goal and gotten Wilde into functional useful clothes and armor, but he felt oddly like he’d lost this battle. And Wilde seemed very pleased with it all. None of it was at all how he’d envisioned it going.

He knew, realistically, that Wilde wasn't walking nearly close enough for him to actually be able to smell the warm soft scent of leather. His head was full of the rich smell regardless.

When they went to the forest, Zolf did feel a bit better. The leather armor spared Wilde from not two but  _ three _ times. So it was worth enduring the spectacle of obscenely leather-wrapped bard. And Zolf eventually managed to focus enough on the mission to get over it, to get his mind into the fight and flight so his heart wasn’t beating an odd staccato every time he looked at Wilde.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Oh, no. Wilde owned the armor, so he really, really  _ owned _ the armor. Zolf got to see it again. And again. And again.

He did eventually even get to smell it for real.

… .- -.. … . .- --. .- -..

“I’m not going in there,” Zolf hissed, gripping his glave tightly so the blood wouldn’t get under his hand and make it slick. The scent of the dead was putrid in the close cave, their trail of bodies unmistakable. There were enemies coming from both exits to the cave.

Well. ‘Both’. Technically there weren’t two exits, but three. The two real actual person-sized doorways were the ones with enemies coming. The third exit was barely an exit at all. It was an air vent, at the base of one of the walls of the cave. Wilde was already dragging a cupboard over and was ignoring him.

“I’ll go first, then. You come in after me, and use your glave to pull this in front of the entrance. That’ll buy us some time.”

“I’m! Not! Goin! In! The! Hole!” Zolf exclaimed, whisper shouting ineffectively. Wilde continued to feign deafness and crawled into the hole.

And what could Zolf do, but climb in after him. He even did as Wilde had said and used his glave to hook the leg of the cupboard and drag it fully in front, sealing off all light. He twisted back round and began scrambling after Wilde, trying not to drag his breastplate audibly against the stone, wincing every time a grommet on his boot or the edge of his glave, held awkwardly half behind him, scraped.

Wilde had stopped, and Zolf scrambled as close behind as he could to whisper quietly. “Why’ve you stopped?”

“I can’t see,” Wilde hissed back. “I didn’t think of how sealing the tunnel would also seal off the light, okay?”

“Don’t cast any spells for light-,”

“You don’t say? I’m not trying to get caught,” he interrupted haughtily. “You can see in the dark, can’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m behind you.”

“Can you squeeze past?”

Zolf snorted. “No. But if you lie flat, I think I can try and see what’s ahead of you and tell you if you’re gonna hit anything or fall in a trap or something.”

“Dammit. I didn’t even think this might be trapped,” Wilde grumbled. He stretched out and went from crawling on hands and knees to lying flat. Zolf leaned forward and squinted, trying to pierce the dark as far as he could. He had to crawl up over Wilde’s calves to see very much ahead. One hand nudged his leg as he tried to lean forward and see.

“I… I don’t see anything. Let’s go ahead maybe twenty feet, then look again.”

“Alright.” Wilde clambered back up and Zolf scrambled back to give him room.

They moved forward without incident, and then Wilde laid down so Zolf could check again. Still nothing. Forward. Down. Look. Forward. Down. Look.

“I… I think I see something.”

“What?”

“A… A T-junction? I don’t know. Let’s go forward a bit more.” Zolf, peering ahead, accidentally put his hand directly on Wilde’s upper thigh as he leaned forward to try and see.

The leather was firm, warm, curving smartly over the apex of his hamstrings. He flinched back and muttered an apology.

In his mind’s eye, he could see his hand gliding up that length of taut leather and leg, under the curve of his ass, kneading and squeezing the strong, thick flesh there, hot and hardy with leather and muscle.

He banished the thought.  _ Focus, Zolf _ .

It was indeed a T-junction, and now Wilde was able to ascertain where more light came from. They went the opposite way and managed to find an exit into an empty cave, and make their escape from there. Zolf was careful not to touch Wilde after that.

The feel of warmth and strength under his hand hung around, as they snuck out of the underground complex, as they rode their carriage back to their base, as they discussed their findings and what to do next. The sensation was fresh and vivid as Zolf cupped that hand around himself, and it was easy to mix daydream with memory as he rocked off to the mental image of continuing that caress to hotter places that Wilde’s hamstrings.

It was a bit upsetting that the rush of come and the scent of his own musk was what reminded him that Wilde had probably never waxed his leathers. This was followed by both eagerness and anticipation, as he realized he would probably have to be the one to show him how.

.-.. . .- - …. . .-. …. --- - - .. . …

It was going to have to be sooner rather than later. They were busy. Zolf was glad they'd bought armor and other supplies, as the word seemed to go to its knees. Wars sprang up, accelerated, and then snapped to a halt. Enemies became friendly, friends became hostile. Soon Zolf was going on missions almost on the daily, scouring for any information, chasing leads, capturing the tainted, reaching out for those who were still themselves. They found Barnes and Carter, and Wilde put them to work, often going out with them. They had pulled back from the Meritocracy, but now the bard sealed them off completely from the dragons and their ilk. This proved to be a move of excellent foresight, when the Meritocracy was infected and splintered.

Despite working alone, lacking resources, aid, and peace of mind, Wilde was still as sharp and clever as ever before. He somehow seemed to know all the going-ons of all surviving resistance factions, and how far the blue conversions had spread. Zolf didn't know where he was getting his intelligence, but he didn't think much about it. That was his job. He was a prat and a flouncey prideful bastard, but he was also a damn good handler. And revealing himself to be an excellent investigative agent as well. Zolf had always been content to imagine that Wilde was a desk jockey and pencil pusher, a handler because he wasn't good in the field, but Wilde had surprised him yet again. He was capable as hell and brilliant to work with, if you overlooked the puns and innuendos.

But he was also mortal. A finite being. And it wasn't just his leathers that were seeing a bit of wear and tear.

.-.-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-

Zolf put it off, of course. He wasn’t normally the anxious type, more of a rip-the-damn-bandaid-off personality, but he kept finding reasons to not, until he finally noticed (not that he was staring) that Wilde’s boots were starting to develop some dangerous creases that would probably turn to cracks, if the leather wasn’t waxed properly. So he went and got some wax, and finally got round to it.

So what if it took a few ales to get him to a point where he could bring it up? That was just coincidence. He liked ale. He wasn’t trying to muster courage or anything.

“You don’t know how to wax your boots, do you?” he finally said.

“Oh, right. No, I don’t know how- I forgot that was something that needed to be done,” Wilde mused, tossing back the last of the wine from his glass. Zolf pulled the tin of wax out of his bag and dropped it on the table.

“Got you some of the better stuff. I noticed they were about ready to split.”

Wilde smiled at him, looking genuinely pleased at the gift, and Zolf was simultaneously warmed by his praised and worried at his own display of affection and thoughtfulness.  _ He can’t think anything of it. It’s just anything a friend would do. Or a coworker. It’s nothing. _ “Much appreciated. Do you mind showing me? I’ve never even seen it be done.”

“Figured as much. Sure, go get your boots.” He took the time to pour himself another mug of drink as Wilde retrieved his boots. Zolf led him to the big kitchen sink and first showed him how to wash them, hot water and no soap, just using his hands to scrub.

“Not a brush or cloth?”

“Nah. You risk scratching or damaging the leather that way. Hands are really the perfect scrubbing tools- you can feel juuust how much pressure to apply, and there’s no sharp bits or nothing to catch. Hands are just textured rignt to remove the grit, but soft enough to not damage the leather.” He huffed impatiently and flopped the top over again as the stupid beautiful boots tried to fill with water again. Damn tall things. He'd never fussed with higher than an 8" boot, and really preferred to stick with a 6". “You really shouldn’t get water inside them. That’s what’ll make them smelly. They don’t want to stay up and out of the water, though.”

“Here, I’ll just put them on. And then they won’t be able to get anything inside,” Wilde said triumphantly, grabbing the one Zolf had yet to wash and slipping it on. The dwarf watched uneasily as Wilde pulled and pulled and pulled at the laces with his clever, dancing fingers.

...that was a lot of eyelets and hooks.

That was a lot of leg.

“Right… good idea,” Zolf said slowly, as Wilde hopped his butt up on the counter and twisted to drop his boot clad foot into the sink. It was much easier this way- Zolf was never really flexible enough to wash his boots while on, and this way it was easy to keep the water from soaking the interior of the boot, and he didn't have to put one hand inside to support the leather as he ground his hand against it to try and scrub them clean.

Wilde hissed unexpectedly, a short jot of air in through his teeth, and Zolf's hands darted away, a nervous flutter. "What's wrong?"

"Just sore. Didn't realize, sorry. It caught me off guard. Carry on, doesn't hurt that bad," Wilde said dismissively. Zolf was unconvinced.

"Not much point in taking care of boot leather and not the living leather under it." Wilde's brows went up, and Zolf shook his head impatiently. "Fine, I'm not exactly the smart writer wordsmith of the group. You know what I mean. Weird hypocrisy, tending to the dead cow and not to the living guy. How hard have you been running yourself? You've been going out on trips with me, and with the others too?"

"A time or few, yes. I've taken healing potions, but there's only so much those can do for generalized soreness and muscle fatigue," Wilde sighed.

"No, what you need is a few day's rest, some stretching, maybe some massages. While I've got you here, I might as well work out some of these knots. Just put your foot right here," Zolf said, dragging a chair over, grabbing Wilde's foot, and depositing it in his seated lap.

"That's quite alright, I said it was fine," Wilde protested. "Only if you want to."

_ I want to _ . The only dialect he spoke was brash and blaise. "It'll be me having to backtrack to save your sorry charley-horse'd arse mid escape. Just sit still and tell me if anything hurts. Or hurts too badly, at least," Zolf said brusquely. Facing those boots, those legs, the sultry upsweep of that calf like a grin, like a challenge, the mile long planes of shinbone, the inviting bent knee begging to be palmed, was still better than looking Wilde in the eye. That perceptive bard bastard always saw through everyone, and the idiot pining sailor knew he'd have no defenses.

He tried not to enjoy it too much, as he ground the heel of his palm into the side of his calf muscle, taunt and tense then supple and pillowy as the tension gave under his ministrations. It was hard not to enjoy it. (Har de har. He was enjoying it, and- well, he was a grown dwarf with plenty of self control, but he could feel the tides of blood in his skin want to follow the heat-heavy-want-lust paths, and it was sheer willpower that kept that all at bay.)

And then Wilde leaned back against the wall, giving in to the massage, and rumbled out a low contented groan.

"I suppose I am a bit tender. Been running ragged a bit more than I used to," Wilde admitted, shifting his hips a bit and reclining more, the leg in Zolf's lap and hands stretching out more comfortably. Zolf could barely hear him over the ocean in his ears and his sudden struggle to keep his breathing slow and quiet and normal. Damn Wilde. It wasn't fair that he could be so masterful at intel, wit,  _ and _ magic on top of that,  _ and still _ be such a visceral being of flesh and heat.

His wants were hammerblows, floods, tsunamis crashing over his head in rapid succession, and he struggled for air between waves.

He wanted to rub his face against the leather of the boots.

He wanted to rub his cheek on his calves. 

He wanted to mouth at the curve of the toe box.

He wanted to feel the weight of the foxing and shaft on his neck, his chest, his groin.

The sharp arch and edge of the ladder cradle on his face.

As he massaged his legs, he used a quick spell to dry the leather. His mouth was dry too, and lips felt full and tacky. "You can't wax wet leather. Its gotta be dry. And then you just grab some wax and rub it in. As much as the leather will take. And it always takes more than I expect. Start with a small area, work it in."

A hand appeared in front of him, offering him the tin. He accepted it with an oddly steady hand, considering how the world had become a small bubble of heated skin, leather, and want, with only he and Wilde and the boots in it.

The scent of the wax and the leather made him shamefully aware of his own musk and wet. His leg muscles fluttered as he plunged three fingers into the wax and scooped out a generous glob.

Straight onto the blucher it went, and his tension bled into a moment of satisfaction when Wilde jumped slightly at the hard press against the sensitive inside of his arch. Zolf worked the wax in, spreading it from sole to ankle, working his way over the toe box and around to the outside ankle. He had to lift Wilde's leg almost to his shoulder to get to the back stay, cupping his achilles and using his fingers to spread the wax, heated with friction and their own body temperatures.

Zolf was keenly aware of his body temperature. Good. Wax went in better when warmed. His hands were hot and burning with the wax, the blood flow from use, and the generalized whole-body-flush of arousal. 

Unhelpfully, his imagination supplied the suggestion that were he to just scoot a bit forward in his chair, he could drop Wilde's heel right against the fork of his legs, and how easy it would be to grind the aching wanting pleasure parts of himself against the hard outsole of Wilde's boot, how fast and hard he would come, knees and thighs tight around Wilde's leg, nose full of the scent of wax and leather, a few of Wilde's fingers in his mouth-

He went back to the wax jar and spread more over the tongue and shaft of the boot, carefully working it under the laces. When he dug his fingers under them to get wax to every inch of the tongue, he felt Wilde tense against the pressure.

"Sorry. Don't want to miss a spot," Zolf said. Wilde made a strange noncommittal hum, and Zolf couldn't help it. His eyes flicked up to Wilde's.

The pure heat in his eyes gave Zolf pause, and his hands smoothed to a halt.

Wilde's face was open and intrigued. No, it was more than that. A fascination. A desire. His lips were parted slightly and eyes were alight with a deep smouldering heat.

Zolf looked away. He looked down, and then found himself staring at the damn boots, so he turned his head. He couldn’t look at Wilde, couldn’t put into words what he saw, what he thought he saw, what he felt, what he thought he felt. He was an adult, dammit, they worked together and Zolf was just- just having a moment or something-

He felt tense and wound so tight, like he could get off on  _ anything _ . A word, the edge of the chair, a toe, anything, He kept his body perfectly still, save for his hands, now rather mechanically grinding the wax into the leather.

He wouldn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Even if he was right about what he saw in Wilde’s eyes, this was not something he was equipped to deal with.

“Zolf.”

Wilde was plenty equipped.

Zolf silently cursed, and went a bit frozen. Maybe he even cringed a little, waiting for the inevitable jab, or pun, for Wilde to say something shocking or childish-

“Do you want to fuck me, the boots, or both?”

_ Oh, fuck _ . Wilde’s voice was a little… awed. Mirthful, but not taunting. And Zolf couldn’t even string two words together. His mouth went dry, and his cunt felt even more soaked, and he could only glance up at Wilde in mute shock. Wilde looked rather pleased with himself.

No taunts. No puns. Just to the fact.

“Hm. Well, you are certainly getting off on just this, anyways.”

He sometimes forgot: Wilde was  _ good _ at his job. Communication, rhetoric, persuasion, infiltration- that was what he did, and did so well it had taken him right to the face of the dragons. The thought of that, the sheer competency wrapped so tightly in the warm, taut leather in front of him, was like dumping gasoline on the fire that was his nerves.

“Or you  _ want _ to get off on this.”

Zolf’s flingers tightened reflexively on Wilde’s ankle for a moment before he yanked his hands back. His heel dropped down onto his knees, where his legs had been pressed tightly together, but apparently that hadn’t done a thing to help conceal his sorry state from the bard.

“I- look, you get the- the… the wax, you see, so I’ll just-“

“Don’t feel that you have to go on my behalf. I would very much like to continue learning everything you know about…  _ boots _ . I won’t cross any boundaries, of course, and if you don’t want to do any of this, that’s fine too. I think you want to. And I’d like to be a more active participant.”

“I want to,” Zolf choked out.

Wilde raised a brow, looking pleased, and leaned forward, his heel sliding up the seam of Zolf’s thighs until it just barely rested against his crotch, and Zolf couldn’t stifle a ragged inhale and a small tensing of his hips.

“I’m glad. You seem quite pent up- gods, have you been this soaked and needy the whole time we’ve been doing this?”

“Every damn time you put the boots on, just about,” Zolf grumbled through gritted teeth. Wilde beamed.

“Well then. You’ve probably got more than one go in you, wouldn’t you say? We can really drag this out and enjoy it, then. Do you think you could get off like this?” he asked, nudging his heel barely harder against Zolf’s core, more pressure on his thighs than where he wanted it.

“Probably,” Zolf rasped, and then shook his head. “But not- not hard. I need- more.”

“Spread your legs,” Wilde ordered. Zolf didn’t hesitate. The boot, gleaming with supple, soft wax, fitted so tenaciously tight against Wilde’s ankle and calf, dropped down to the chair. The dwarf’s hands trembled on his knees, desperate to scoot forward just a tiny bit and grind himself to bliss on that sole.

Wilde simply pointed his toe, the leather at his ankle creasing, and his toe pressed against the unsatisfying top of his cunt. He flexed, and Zolf huffed a breath as the toe dragged over his core, then back up, so infuriatingly gently. He did it again, and Zolf’s shoulders slouched forward, but he didn’t dare move his hips.

“You put me in these boots, you know,” Wilde said mildly, lazily moving his toe in little taunting circles. “Did you know, at the time, that you’d be this hot for them?”

“I wanted you safe, I didn’t want you sexed up,” Zolf admitted in a growl. Fuck, but he was damn near panting, just from this. At this rate, he wouldn’t come for ages, and riding this slight pressure-slight pleasure in between was making him just more sensitive.

“Do you want to take off your trousers? Or get off like this?”

“No. I mean, I don’t- don’t stop, but please, harder, just- just a little-,” he stammered into a broken whimper-gasp as Wilde suddenly leaned forward, sliding his toes neatly under his cunt until his entire foot was hugged between Zolf's thighs.

“My ankle is tired. You do the work. Get off on my boot. Fast and hard as you’d like," Oscar said with just the right amount of boredom and dismissal.

Zolf didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know that he could, as clenching and desperate as he was. He rolled his hips frantically, his breath almost hiccupping every time his swollen clit ground over his laces, his entire cunt sensitive and throbbing. He leaned forward a bit, wrapping one hand under Wilde’s calf, the other sliding up his knee to rub over the top of the boot. Wilde watched him with open fascination and glee, quietly egging him on,  _ come on, Zolf, show me how much you love this, how long you’ve hungered for this- you can have it, now, you’ve held out long enough, you can get fucked on my boots, come on, take it _ -

Still clothed and clumsy as the boot was, he felt every small ratcheting up to his climax, fought for every spark and needpleasurewant sensation, trying to grind harder, anything, just trying to get- to get there- almost- fuckpleasejust-

His orgasm rushed through his nerves like lava, and he wailed a bit, hunching forward over the boot and grinding himself firmly though the shocks. Even so, with the bliss and rush, he was aware of his muffling trousers, empty mouth and cunt.

“Well. That was quite pretty, wasn’t it? I bet you’re not nearly done yet, either. That was just taking the front off. Sit on the floor. Trousers on- I want you sticky and soaked,” Wilde said impetuously. Zolf slid off the chair and onto the floor, wincing slightly at how full of spunk and slick his trousers felt.

“You didn’t finish waxing my boot. Now, I intend for you to be absolutely wrecked by the end of this, so you should probably finish it now. But no more slow, gentle kneeling. I’m going to put my foot here, and you’re going to make sure the toe of my boot is still clean. I just touched your filthy cunt with it, it needs to be washed again. So how about you get to that?” Wilde commanded, and Zolf silently praised and cursed him, for knowing exactly what he wanted, for putting him on the floor, a footstool, a servant, making him metaphorically kiss his boots.

Oh, wait. Literally.

He dropped his boot on Zolf’s shoulder, and Zolf twisted, moving it to rest more on his clavicle, and dragged his tongue over the toe, tracing the welt seam, pressing hard to try and make Wilde feel his tongue through the leather. He twisted his head and mouthed over the toe, dragging his teeth lightly but careful to not dig in- he would be horrified if he marked the leather up.

He couldn’t taste himself, but he could smell his slick, musky and heavy, paired with the rich scent of leather. He could taste the leather, and it made his mouth water. He closed his lips over the toe cap stitching and mouthed up the inside, to the tender medial arch of his foot.

“What a mess you’ve made. Of my boot, and now yourself. You’ll have wax in your beard for ages. I wonder if the scent of leather will cling to it as well- you’ll smell me for a week, I hope. Even when I’m not parading around, you’ll see me in your mind’s eye. Like this. Look at me,” Wilde commanded lazily. Zolf was a response-thing now, reduced to lust, impulse, obedience. It was oddly soothing, to be so out of control yet in control- Wilde’s control, not his own. It was like being in a tempest, the ocean heaving around him, but moored to a dock. He rode the waves and felt the splash, but didn’t feel in danger of upending.

He looked up at Wilde as he dragged his tongue up the toe cap, saw his eyes glistening with barely contained want, his trousers tented, his lips cherry red and wet looking.

_ You're beautiful _ , Zolf suddenly whispered in his mind, mouthful of boot as he was. And Wilde was- he was beautiful, he was always beautiful, but his beauty was usually a beacon, a lure, a public and shared thing meant for everyone to have a bit of. Right now, though- this was just for Zolf.

"You're going to be thinking about this every time I put my boots on now, aren't you? This filthy little tableau- but then, I'm sure you were before now, too. That's terribly risky and irresponsible of you, Zolf, going on missions in such a state. I doubt you're fully capable of watching my back when you're too horny from watching my boots."

Damn him and damn his filthy mouth. Zolf admitted nothing and only licked harder, pressing and tracing the curve of Wilde’s foot through the leather. He still… wanted. His whole body was still throbbing, hungering, but he was focused on the task at hand. Cleaning his boot.

“You look good, wrapped around my boot like that. What might we try next?” Wilde mused. “Speak up. What do you need?”

What did he need? Anything, everything. Nothing but this. He thought, trying to think over his body. His cunt still clenched around nothing.

“I- I need. Something. In… inside me,” Zolf said quietly, each word coming with both embarrassment and relief. He wasn’t a person who had much shame and dignity, but he wasn’t someone used to asking for what  _ he _ wanted. To be told to be greedy was odd. “But I still want to play with the boots.”

“Hmm. I’ve got an idea. Stay there for a moment.” Wilde reached down and pulled the laces, undoing the double bow knot at the top of each boot, unweaving the hook eyelets, unthreading the set eyelets, finally pulling it from the last holes at the bottom of the gusset. He repeated it with the other boot, until he held both laces, then scooted off the counter.

“Do you mind if I undress? And you undress as well?” he asked. Zolf shook his head mutely. “Good. Strip, please. How much prep do you think you’d need to take my cock?”

His mouth went dry, then watered. “I- probably none, honestly. I- after I come once, I’m… ready.”

Wilde finished removing the last of his clothes, and his cock twitched in the cool air as he sat down on the chair Zolf had vacated, and experimentally put one foot up on the counter. He nodded once.

“Come straddle my lap, back to me. Do you see what you’ve done to me, Zolf? You and the boots. Look at you, you’re soaking wet. All for the boots?”

“And you. You in the boots. All the armor. The leather, you look… I can’t stand it. I’m sorry, I know it’s weird-,”

“It’s scintillating, that’s for sure. Now, straddle- don’t sit. Just stand. I want to see what I’m working with here,” he said. “You get to look at me in leather and enjoy that all the time, I want to see  _ you _ , what all this leather is doing.”

Zolf tottered over and swung a leg over Wilde’s legs, and rotated his shoulders a bit so he could see what Wilde was doing.

“You smell like leather. Musk and life,” Wilde murmured into the sensitive skin of his shoulder, running his hands up and down Zolf’s thighs. It wasn’t exactly easy, standing wide like this over Wilde- his prosthetics bit into his lower thighs at the odd angle, but they held. Wilde reached around and ran his hands up and down his pubis, over his hips and back down his thighs.

And then without warning, one hand reached up and cupped his labia, and ground the heel of his hand against Zolf’s hole. Zolf gasped and his legs shook. A finger went sliding up the seam of his labia, found his hole, and then pressed in.

“Oh, g-gods,” Zolf whined out, hands in his own hair in desperation. He tilted his hips as Wilde moved his finger, teasing or testing him, trying to get more- more touch, friction, more heat, more press,  _ more _ . Apparently satisfied, Wilde pulled out, leaving him wet and flexing.

"C'mon, down we go," Wilde murmured, and Zolf realized he was pulling at his hips. He allowed himself to be steered down until Oscar's searing cock was slightly pressing on his entrance. The dwarf breathed carefully, legs shaking, as he tried to be patient and not just sink down onto that hard heat.

"Now," Wilde said, sounding a bit breathless himself, "You're going to seat yourself right here, right on my cock, right where you belong, and you're going to lace up my boots while I get off in you. Yes or no?"

"Yes," Zolf hissed impatiently. He was so  _ empty _ , he needed- he just  _ needed. _

"Good. He we go." Wilde tugged him down, and Zolf abandoned the directives of those hands on his hips and took him  _ all _ in one move, dropping his hips and leaning forward, crooning slightly as he was finally blessedly filled. It wasn't the peak, but it was  _ good _ , and he still  _ needed _ , but he was also full of heat and pleasure.

For a moment, Wilde just moaned, loud, mouth wide, hips instinctively pressing up into Zolf, fucking back hungrily, but then took back control- by taking a handful of Zolf's hair in one hand and wrapping the other around his middle. He yanked his hair, pulling his head back punishingly, and gripped him tight against his chest, stilling his motion.

"I thought you wanted the boots and the leather, turns out you're just a common cock whore, is that all?" he said with a quiet sort of anger. His hand tightened in his hair and gave another wrench, making Zolf yowl in pain. "You're going to stay put. And you're going to lace up my boots. Just like this. Gored and gorged on my prick. And no cheating. You stay just like this. Anything I don't permit, I'll unlace them and start over."

Zolf looked at Wilde's long legs, and the impossibly tall boots. He didn't know if it was privilege or torture, to do all those eyelets.

Fourteen on each side. Cruel, glorious boots.

His cunt flexed instinctively, and he let out a low groan. His entire body felt like it was screaming for a fucking, but he listened to Wilde and leaned down to reach the gusset and base of the tongue, his breathing going funny as the stretch and tilt of his body did odd things to the molten sensitive walls of his hole, still stretched and thrumming from Wilde's cock stuffed in him.

Bleeding mad boots.

He threaded the laces through the bottom. He wanted to just hurry up and do them, but he wanted to do them  _ right _ \- admittedly, not just because the handler would make him do them again, but because he wanted to pay the boots the respect they deserved and wanted it done correctly.

He made sure the lengths were even, the tongue tucked, working slowly with tingling fingers, fighting to keep pulling his attention from  _ needwantfuck _ to the work at hand. First grommets, right under left. Second grommets, right under left. Third grommets, right under left.

Wilde held him still, hands on his hips, first holding tightly and then petting faintly as Zolf worked his way up the boots.

Bleeding mad bard. He did these up every time they went into danger? They were more of a disaster than he'd thought, between Oscar  _ fourteen blasted grommets _ Wilde and Zolf  _ blood not in my brain _ Smith.

When he was about halfway up, Wilde gave a firm roll of his hips. Zolf hoped maybe he was feeling a bit desperate as well, but that was unlikely. This was almost certainly just more teasing. Not expecting it, and trying (trying! so! hard!) to focus on the laces, Zolf was caught completely off guard, sucking in a breathy gasp as the burning member tucked inside him pressed deeper still, what with him not expecting it and being a bit more relaxed.

He weren't relaxed none now. Now he was sweating, a heavy drop of perspiration tickling the back of his knee as he shivered against the desire to move.

His hips stayed still and Wilde mouthed happily at his neck, hands sliding up his front to drag a thumbnail over one nipple.

"Wilde, gods _ damn _ it," Zolf stammered, arching back against his mouth and heat, but still careful to not move his hips or do anything that would be  _ actually bloody useful to getting him off, please gods he needed it- _

"Oscar. My name is Oscar. Say so."

"Osca- _ ah!" _ He had fucked up into him again, just once, and this time instead of melting further against him, Zolf began working the laces more furiously. The first was done in moments, and he threaded the lace of the second one in hurriedly. 

Wilde- Oscar- that damn sexy bastard what was torturing him like so- seemed to notice his hurry, and began just circling his hips a bit, thumbing at his nipple at odd intervals he couldn't predict. The tiniest friction, somehow both better and worse than before, nothing that would get him off within the next hour. Though for a moment, as he was threading the second to last  _ fucking finally  _ lace, as Wilde ran his teeth over the shell of his ear and slowly traced one hand down, over his navel, to his pubis, slowly lower, as the sweat was now gathering in the sleeve of his prosthetics and making them burn and ache as well-

-he could see himself and Oscar in his mind's eye, from third person, and saw those luscious ringlets framing a pale, clever face, high spots of color from heat and want, long pale hands finally reaching where Zolf needed them so badly, seated chest-to-back, naked as life save for the leather boots, one leg propped up in front and the other slowly working muscle to rock his cock up into Zolf, pressed together like a puzzle, hot and glistening and both of their mouths slightly parted as they panted and moaned-

He nearly came from the mental image and the tiny stimulation he was getting. Despite having already- fuck, the thought made his arousal ratchet up further- come once, he was still desperate and begging his handler, with whispered pleas and steadily flexing his cunt,  _ just more, please, I need _ .

He finished the second boot. The laces weren't even.

Oscar pressed his fingers into his back, prodding, and Zolf obeyed, standing and swallowing down a whimper when he was empty and cold again. He was going to make him redo it, he was going to have to unlace the entire boot over again-

The fingers kept pushing him until he was up against the sink, pushed his back down, a knee knocked at his thighs until he shuffled to spread his legs, wider-

Oscar sank back into him all at once, the swell of his blunt head, heat, depth, pressing him inside in all the places he needed- he  _ needed! _ \- and Zolf could only keep his legs spread and hold onto the edge of the sink as Wilde slammed into him, again and again.

Wilde was snarling something, bending low until his front was again flush with Zolf's back, the deep slamming thrusts turning into something more molten, short snaps of his hips that made Zolf hiccup and wail with pleasure.

One of those smart musician-magician-handler fingers slipped down between his legs, briefly traced along his burning labia, grazing the cock being plunged into him, and dragged back to tap at his clit.

And he was in that perfect place- he wasn't coming yet, but he was getting waves of nearly-orgasmic pleasure without the climax, and this was the best place in the  _ world,  _ where he was soaked and surging with bliss and a horny sort of satisfaction that his peak was right there, but not ending, would he could live in this moment forever, Wilde's voice a melodic moaning snarl of mating hungry sex, the soft sound of flesh being absolutely plowed, smouldering rippling pleasure-

_ Oh _ . He was going to  _ come _ .

He was going to come like a firework, the pleasure screaming up toward that raw detonation of lights and euphoria, and from the way Wilde was humping into him with that jerking, patternless desperation, he was getting there too. All the teasing and playing couldn't have been easy for him either. Oscar was pressing tighter against him, like he wanted his whole being fucking him, inside him. 

He shifted and pressed Zolf down lower over the counter, now fully bent over like a begging whore (and right now, he had no shame in admitting- yep, he was absolutely a begging whore). At this angle, Wilde stammered for a moment, and then got one knee up on the counter beside him. Fully mounting him. In this position, his thrusts never came far out of Zolf. He was just grinding and snapping his hips in short pounding motions, forcing Zolf to really open up wide for him. Now Zolf was on his toes, panting and groaning, with Wilde's low posh tones tickling his ear with heavy huffing breath, and the rough side of one of those fucking boots pressed into his bare hip and nudging his ass, and… he didn't stand a chance. He could feel his cunt tightening and spasming as it all was coming to a peak-

Zolf grabbed the hand that wasn't tapping and pressing his clit, the one that was just holding on for dear life to his chest, and dragged it up to his mouth, sucking two fingers in to gently set his teeth against and run his tongue over, and then

-then-

-oh oh oh  _ oh oh fuck oh fuck- _

- _ yes _ -

And then he was coming, his orgasm hitting him just like a firework, lights and black blossoms erupting behind his eyelids as heatpleasure chased every nerve, running down the length of his arms and his chest. He ground back against Wilde, rolling his hips, dragging it out, dragging every bit of pleasure he could out.

It all flooded over him a bit more as Wilde let out a pretty keen as he came and well, hot and full inside him, fingers pushing down on his tongue as he feverishly ground through crest after crest with Oscar pressed tight inside him. 

Wilde finally had to pull out with another melodious whine, probably sensitive and definitely trembling. Zolf stayed slumped over the sink, feeling lazy. Light. Loose. Properly fucked out. He couldn't even give a damn that he'd just done said proper fucking with his… handler? Friend? Fellow end-of-the-world mate?

He did definitely give a damn about the cooling mess sticking to his crotch and thighs, eugh, that was going to ruin his glow-

There was a snap, and it was gone.

"Did you just  _ prestidigitate _ us clean?" Zolf said incredulously.

"... perhaps."

Zolf snorted and dropped his head down, laughing dizzily. "What are we doing, Wilde? I just fucked your boot, and then you."

"...yes, that did just happen. I, uh… I'm glad you like… my boots."

An age ago, Zolf wouldn't have noticed the faint haughty tone that worked to conceal an underlying insecurity in his voice.

Half that ago, Zolf would've noticed, but wouldn't have cared.

Gods, he  _ cared _ . Oscar Wilde. His gentle offer made Zolf want to both smack him and hug him. This was a way for Zolf to take the out- to say  _ yes Wilde, I like YOUR BOOTS, full stop. You're just a fleshy man with some fleshy bits that I can pleasure myself with while I really romanticize those boots. _

"It's not just the boots," Zolf blurted out, turning.

"Hmm?"

"Not just the boots. You asked, earlier… I feel like I've gotten to know you. Better. Really well. And I… I really like what I've learned. I like you. A lot. And- well, basically, I'm not just hot for your boots, I'm also hot for you- and, and I'm interested in you… you get it. I like  _ you _ , Oscar. Anyway, uh. Yeah. Do with that what you want," he finished quickly, suddenly worried again he was misreading. 

Wilde didn't hesitate to swoop down and kiss him, firmly, mouth open and tongue dragging tantalizingly over the seam of his lips but drawing back before Zolf could pull him in and reciprocate. He swayed forward before catching himself and opening his eyes.

Wilde was looking at him curiously, and Zolf was seized like a sail in stormwind- he wanted to give him whatever answers he wanted, tell him his whole life, tell him anything, everything, give him everything he had and more.

It was terrifying. He hadn't been in love for… well. It had been a long time.

He wouldn't say it- not yet. Not right after a horny boot-kink fueled fuck. Maybe he would wait a long time to be sure. Maybe not too long, as the world was sort of falling apart around them. Some quiet evening, after a nice hot meal, beside a fire, where they could toast wine to each other. One of the rich dry ones Oscar liked, that paired so well with the pink fleshed fish Zolf could catch. Yes, he liked that.

He couldn't know if they would even survive that night, let alone long enough to plan something like this. But he wanted it.

"Did you really think I were just hot for your boots?" Zolf mumbled instead of the jagged clumsy platitudes he wanted to say.

"Communication is important, and I believe you understand that I have probably had sex with people solely for boots or some other fun yet meaningless reason."

Zolf's daydream of fireside wine and rare mako steak evaporated and his stomach lurched.

"Is that… what this is?"

"What do you mean? You're the one with the boot-"

"I mean is this sex solely for boots and meaninglessness."

"From the moment we met-  _ clashed _ \- in that Londom apartment years ago, I've never quite managed to categorize you as meaningless," Oscar said, casual tone completely at odds with the meaning of his words. His eyes flicked away from Zolf's for a moment, betraying his vulnerability.

"So… this is…?"

"I really enjoy you, Zolf, not just as a bed partner but as a person, and I think I would quite enjoy pursuing a romantic relationship with you." Zolf grinned- the bard was  _ nervous _ , and that was incredibly endearing.

He pulled him down for another kiss, slower, giving them both time to appreciate it.

"Yeah?" he murmured, resting his brow against Wilde's.

"Yeah."

**Author's Note:**

> @ all the other Wilde/Zolf shippers round here: I love everyone at this bar


End file.
